I recently found out that the twenty-first century PRofC, they test and give ratings for nearly everything. This blows my mind. A 12 year old student recently had to take a piano test (another, a dancing test), because, "if you don't take the test and get the rating that comes with passing the test, nobody will believe that you can actually play the piano." I was stunned. This strikes me as pure baloney. Nevertheless, the PRofC's unique brand of meritocracy requires such tests, government-backed seals of approval and the like.
I suppose I had long been vaguely aware of this. My cousin-in-law is a dancer with this province's song and dance troupe and he occasionally has tests. By testing at a certain level he can guarantee a higher salary, and other benefits. Similarly, the powers-that-be certify professors at different levels. In the West we often think of these things (particularly the arts) as being unquantifiable, amorphous and the like. You should be judged by your peers, by an audition, or by some other live-and-in-person performance, not simply some body of work or some test approval. Indeed, for us, the arts are not simply a set of tests that you can pass and work your way up the ladder. Nor do we speak of a National A-level professor, who can then apply for more funding or different grants, or can hold positions in other study. Many such A-level professors hold such a bewildering array of positions (head of this and that organization) that you wonder when there's time to teach. But that's a different issue, I suppose. It's not like we don't have mechanisms to judge peoples' accomplishments in the West. They're just different, and having grown up with the one it is difficult to fathom the other. I never took a piano test as a kid, and my limited understanding of the dance world is that it primarily relies on auditions. It appears less scientific, I am sure that there are significant backroom maneuverings. These are the sorts of issues that the PRofC is actively trying to avoid given the long-standing outcry against graft, but it makes you wonder where the innovation and expression that are inherently part of arts and academia can thrive if you're always worried about the next test (see also the debate on standardized
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What would you do if you could start completely from scratch? This is a pretty intriguing question, and one that the people of Jiegu (Skye dgu) town have been forced to answer over the last three years after the devastating earthquake that destroyed homes, lives, and identities. There were limits imposed upon what people could do (they could not, for example, use traditional building materials and build homes in a traditional fashion... i.e. through communal work) as this was the state's great opportunity to remake a town in the image that it wants. Immediately, upon return three years later, one sees that heritage is to be the name of the game. Personally, I don't for one second think that the building materials being used now are any safer or more earthquake resistant than the ones that they had before... but they are supposed to be safer and discussing graft is the target of neither this topic nor the blog as a whole. Instead, I'd like to use this post to point you to a new mini-gallery I've put up entitled: Rebuilding Yushu. The gallery is composed entirely of images of different buildings in hopes of adding a visual element to this discussion. I hope you enjoy it. Firstly, a note about the re-building. All residents were allocated an 80 square meter (861 square foot) concrete pillbox and a very small amount of land. From there, one could purchase more land, contract workers to build you a bigger home, or do any number of things. The 80 square meter homes all share a single floor plan are all painted an almost salmon color, and the windows are made to look "Tbtn." The windows are the only part made of wood, and supposedly woodworkers were brought in from Zhigatse (Gzhis ka rtse) to produce these windows... because everyone knows that Tbtn windows should look the same from Zhigatse (in the TAR) to Qinghai because they are Tbtn and all Tbtns are the same over that region. One of the options in starting from scratch is, I suppose, to take what they give you and say "thank you very much." And some people have done that, but seeing what other families have managed to do, these homes look simply forlorn. They also frequently feature some of the smallest yards imaginable and make-shift fences of anything that's lying around.
Some families have also bought extra land. They may use this extra land to keep the 80 square meter house and add some spaces that can be let out to people trying to start a business. Indeed, landlord seems to be the new occupation of choice for land-owning residents of Jiegu. And why not? The population of Jiegu town has grown at a flat out silly rate. I had the good fortune of seeing a video from the town's new year festival a mere 15 years ago (admittedly that seems like an age in modern China) and was stunned not only by the relative absence of vehicles, the presence of traditional clothes and the like, but also by the simple lack of other ethnic groups. The town was very homogenous back then, and the people with whom I watched the video knew just about everyone who graced the screen. By contrast, I walked through town with the same people and they did not recognize the majority of people. Indeed, it may not be too much of a stretch to suggest that Jiegu has become something of the cultural and economic capitol of the Khams region. T people from all over Khams, including Chab mdo and Sde dge have come to the region seeking both income and a more metropolitan lifestyle. In a relatively narrow valley where land was always somewhat scarce, this has driven real estate prices through the roof. A mu of land in some areas sells for upwards of 150,000 US Dollars (!). By contrast one can travel to a nearby valley--a mere 1o minutes away by car) and find land prices that are a fraction of that. Ok, i have spent too much time on this post already. Hurry up and check out the gallery already! So my wife and I recently returned from some time in her hometown, Jiegu (that's the pinyin at any rate) township, in Yushu Prefecture. Homecomings should be familiar territory for people, but (as anybody who has had a tumultuous family holiday can attest) the way things should be and the way they are can sometimes be two very different things. It had been almost two years since our last visit to the region, still rebuilding after an earthquake rocked the region in 2010 and precipitated a building and re-imaging process on a nigh unprecedented level. Almost every building has been leveled, to be rebuilt with a concrete imitation of what a Tib. style house should be. Even those buildings that look like they're made of stone (not the traditional materials of choice in this region) are actually fake stone made of concrete.
My wife felt like a stranger in this new place. She felt like some bizarre half-tourist, half-native hybrid. Who knows the language, people, and customs, but little of the space! To say that it was disconcerting for her would be an understatement. The only metaphor I can think for this (given my choral background) is of a four part mass that you know only too well (let's say a Byrd), that all of a sudden is only barely recognizable. Please bear with me as I extend the metaphor: There's a bass-line that you know well. It's been there since time immemorial it seems and sets the tone for the piece. This bass-line is the mountains and rivers that resolutely background this town and have for years. he bass-line is mostly unchanged, but this is perhaps the only reason that you still recognize the beloved piece. The tenor line, however, is completely different. Quite literally unrecognizable. the drone of generators that hum ceaselessly from morning until evening, the engines and horns of massive heavy trucks that seem intent on doing nothing more than providing a quite literally demonstration of the doppler effect. Hammers pounding throughout the summer's many daylight hours, sometimes crescendoing into the high notes as power saws intermittently impose their high pitch whine into proceedings to momentarily commandeer the whole tune. The alto line is the building. Here again, everything has changed. Homes you used to know well, are gone. Replaced by multi-level townhouses, or apartment buildings. You are told that this is modernization, but to you it seems to be at the expense of home. The soprano line is perhaps the most jarring, if only because it hasn't been fully replaced, only irrevocably altered. Some of those favorite old notes are there, but your once melodious piece is suffused with a frenetic number of new notes, that turn Byrd in Philip Glass (who's awesome, just not in my beloved Byrd!). In this metaphor, these are the people who populate this town. There are, indeed, a number of the old faces. They reassure you. "Yes, this is Jiegu," you think. But many of the old faces are also missing (spending their years in the provincial capital, or tragically passed in the earthquake or since) and there are so many new faces. Where are they coming from? Migrant workers (from any number of ethnic groups), entrepreneurs trying to provide services that cash in on the newly rich caterpillar-fungus infused economy, people from other T areas like Chab mdo and Sde dge. All in all, the experience ends up being bittersweet. Dorothy was right, there IS no place like home. But there's a sense of loss, longing, and a wondering about where home actually is anymore. Returning to the big city seems like a better option than staying there. She still loves the place, but just as much in memory as in fact. It was a great trip, she loved it too, but it's still worth discussing this side too. It's also worth mentioning, that almost everyone in town universally speaks of improving conditions, and they do so positively and mo... and the prefectural gov't offices are still in makeshift huts even as many have already moved into their new homes. I know that I posted earlier in the day, and I promise that there are better posts to come, but I learned of an interesting taboo during my trip that might be worth putting into the blogosphere before I forget it:
It is taboo, when pouring from a ladle, pan, etc. to pour away from you (towards the outside of your body). By this I mean that if you are pouring with your right hand you must pour towards the left, and when pouring with your left hand you must pour towards the right. I wasn't given a particularly useful explanation about this taboo, but I think it's interesting. And so, dear reader, the next time you find yourself in the midst of a hom traveling on the plateau, please pour in the proper fashion. Well, I'm back from the ever-elusive field, and I feel confident that I got the win that was necessary to get life here back on track. Or perhaps I felt confident. There's something about those landscapes (for which superlatives are never enough) that makes it easy to forget one's troubles. Then I came back to Xining, and nestled in amongst those 235 or so new emails were one or two that bore the sort of tidings that reminded me precisely of where I'm living and how much there is to do in a very limited time. I believe that this is why C poet Tao Qian referred to city life as "the dusty net."
Over the next few weeks, I'll be adding photos to my smugmug page (timinchina.smugmug.com), and you can check them out if you feel so inclined. |
About TimAs you can see elsewhere on this webpage, I conduct research on ethnic minorities in western China. This blog offers semi-academic musings on the minutiae of daily life out here--the sort of information otherwise destined for footnotes. Categories |